


Run You Down

by summerstorm



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, F/M, Felching, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is this Jules's place?" Caroline asks, and Tyler nods once, frowning as he opens the door the rest of the way. "Is she around?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run You Down

"Is this Jules's place?" Caroline asks, and Tyler nods once, frowning as he opens the door the rest of the way. "Is she around?"

"Not right now," Tyler says slowly. There's an implied _why_ in his tone, though Caroline can't tell if he's confused she's asking or if he's confused about why she's here at all.

"I just," Caroline begins. It doesn't sound right. It sounds apologetic, which, no. She has nothing to apologize for. When she opens her mouth again, the words come out stronger. "I didn't know if you'd gone off on your own or you were still with her or what. Can I come in?"

"Sure." Caroline raises an eyebrow at the doorframe, and he says, "Do you seriously think I can—this is not my house. I can't just—"

Caroline rolls her eyes. She didn't even consider that. Like, okay, she figured Tyler must be living somewhere, and she thought it might be with Jules, but it didn't even occur to her he wouldn't be able to invite her in. "Can you try?" she says, feeling a little frustrated. "We can talk somewhere else if I can't—it's fine." God, this is so embarrassing. Of all the horrible little things about being a vampire, this is probably the one she hates the most.

"Yeah, I mean," Tyler says, stepping aside, "come in."

She lifts her foot through the threshold, and it actually goes through. "Huh," she says, coming in. He shuts the door behind her. "Maybe it's a werewolf pack thing."

"Maybe," Tyler allows. He doesn't look very happy about that possibility.

"Or maybe she just doesn't, I don't know, own it or whatever," Caroline says.

Tyler's face goes blank for a second before he rolls his eyes and says, "Yeah, whatever," and walks them both into a small living room. He leans against the back of a couch and says, "You can sit down if you want."

"I'm fine," Caroline says.

There's an awkward silence. Caroline catches the inside of her lip with her teeth and presses her lips together, swaying a little on her feet. He just looks at her. It's not exactly an opening. She needs an opening. She seriously can't figure out why she thought it would be a good idea to go after Tyler. Like, okay, there's still a long while until the next full moon, so she has that on him, and Caroline can mostly accept he cared—cares—about her. Even if he wasn't that great about showing it for a while there, he did seem to care, about her and about Matt, and she's probably the person who can tell Tyler his mom's freaking out and he needs to go back home and he can't just ditch school like that and _his mom is freaking out_ in the most effective way.

But things between them are still uncomfortable, and now that she's here they seem even worse, like no time has passed at all since the last time they saw each other. Since he stole her phone. He still kissed her, and she still rejected him, and she still kept things from him, and he still hesitated, and he's still a werewolf and she's still a vampire and there's still a part of her that wants to punch him and a part of her that wants to hug him and a part of her that wants to kiss him. Because those things don't just go away, no matter how much Caroline wishes they would. If she could just handle this rationally like a detached person, that would be great. But she's not entirely sure she can.

"Why are you here?" Tyler says after a while. He sounds as tired of this conversation as she feels, even though it hasn't even started yet.

"I am on—you need to come back to Mystic Falls duty," she says, nodding to herself.

He laughs, the sound cut short by disbelief. "You're what?"

"You need to come back to Mystic Falls," Caroline says, just going with it. He pushes himself onto his feet and takes a step towards her. She doesn't move, doesn't budge. "You need to—your mom's worried about you. You can't just leave someone a note. And you need to go back to school. I know you're—you can't just throw your life away like that."

"I'm not you," Tyler says. "I really don't care—"

"No, you're not me," Caroline says. "You don't get any do-overs here. When I—if I make it out of Mystic Falls alive, I can do it all again, but you can't. You have one life. And you're just throwing it away. Being a werewolf is _not_ a career path—"

Tyler interrupts her again, this time with a snort. She had this whole speech in mind, why can't he just let her give it?

"I'm serious," she says. "Your mom needs you home. You need you home. And Matt's worried about you, I can tell, and honestly so am I, okay? I'm not forgiving you yet, but you need to be home so I can stop worrying about you and about Jules and what she's telling you and what you're doing and you just—you need to come back."

Tyler doesn't laugh this time. He doesn't look amused, either. His face takes on this somber air and he just looks at her, lips a thin line, eyes searching. She suppresses the urge to shrug apologetically, the urge to take it back, the urge to start yelling at him, repeating everything all over again. She stands there and just suppresses all her urges. She's getting pretty good at that. She's not sure she even wants to be good at that, but it's important to control the cravings, so what if it spreads into other aspects of her life. It's fine.

"How are things going with Matt?" is how Tyler chooses to break the silence. He takes another step towards her.

She snaps this time. "No," Caroline says, shaking her head, "you don't get to ask me that."

"What do I get to ask you?" he says, raising his voice and stepping into her space. "Seriously, Caroline, what am I allowed to know? Because right now I feel like we're in exactly the same place we were in when I left where you just hide things from me and I'm supposed to, what, keep my questions to myself for my own safety? _You_ don't get to tell me what I can ask."

"Tyler," she warns, lifting her hand. It hovers near his shoulder, not touching. She'll shove him off if she has to.

"How did you even find me?"

Caroline wants to shrug, but she doesn't feel like she should be moving, so she stays still and closes her eyes instead, straining her lids. "I asked around."

"You asked around," Tyler says, his tone incredulous.

"About Jules," says Caroline. "And I heard you—outside my house, I heard you. I didn't actually know it was you until I woke up and my _mom_ had left _me_ a note that something had happened with Carol Lockwood and she needed to deal with that. She's still dealing with that. She's this close to putting together a search party."

"What?"

"You wish I was kidding," Caroline says, with some bite. She snorts. " _I_ wish I was kidding, Tyler, seriously. You can't stay here forever."

"I can stay long enough," says Tyler, obstinate, and Caroline laughs sharply.

"You can't just," she starts, voice rising, "you can't just pack up and leave when things get complicated, you can't—"

"What, you think this is the first time I've thought about it? Do you have _any_ idea what I've been through the last two years? This is not some random whim, Caroline."

"Well, that's what it looks like if you don't explain anything!" she says, screaming now, screaming with her eyes closed and her head a little down. Somewhere in the last minute Tyler's grabbed the hem of her shirt and is holding onto it, holding her close, knuckles sharp on her stomach, and when she looks up he's so close his face is all out of focus and she clutches his shoulder to keep from falling even though she wouldn't—even though she's fast enough now that she never has to fall down again.

His skin is warm under the sleeve, so so warm, feverishly hot, and she can't help splaying her fingers over it, digging harder, watching it go white. She bites her lip to make herself stop, and looks at him again.

She knows where this is going as soon as she meets his eyes, but it still comes as a shock when he kisses her.

She doesn't _mean_ to kiss back. She doesn't mean not to kiss back, either. It's just not an informed decision at all, surging into him, holding on and opening her mouth for him and sucking on his tongue. None of it is anywhere close to planned or consciously decided, but it happens anyway, like this train wreck she's seeing from some point far away and she can't stop happening. She can't not go with it. She doesn't have the strength of mind, the willpower to pull back; all she can do is close her eyes and moan into his mouth when his hands rise along her sides, pulling her shirt up with them.

The closest she gets to walking away, which would clearly be the right thing to do in this situation, is taking a step back, only he follows her just as she's undoing that particular choice and their knees collide and she stumbles backwards, taking him with her.

She ends up on her ass, legs bent high around his body, one of his arms twisting to hold onto the back of her knee and pull her body closer. He leans over her, practically hovering until he uses his other hand to hold onto her side and kisses her again, not as rough this time, his mouth as tentative as the fingers undoing the high buttons of her shirt. They only go down as far as her chest, but he gets through them all before realizing that, before moving his hand to her breast. His palm rubs softly over the bottom of it, pushing it up at first, then sliding upwards until the base of his forefinger presses into her nipple through the fabric, just for a moment before his grasp turns to clutching.

Her hips jerk, and she has to hold herself up to save her back from hitting the floor. Belatedly, she realizes it wouldn't even hurt past the fear of it happening, because she's not someone who feels sore all day after having sex on a kitchen table anymore.

She feels kind of stupid, propped up on her hands with her legs around him, ankles crossed above the small of his back. She stretches her legs off him, onto the floor, lowering her hips. The floor is hard under them, though, and cold and unpleasant, and she makes an effort to sit up without breaking the kiss, keeping one hand on his chest to push him back as she goes, until he's kneeling up and she can do the same thing.

He lowers his hands to her waist and breaks away to pull her shirt over her head. Her hair falls over her forehead once it's gone, and she's running her fingers through it to smooth it out and pull it back when she feels his knuckles low on her belly, fingers fumbling with her fly.

"I can get that," she says, batting off his hands, nudging him back—and she must shove harder than she thought, because he falls back onto his elbows. He raises his hands vaguely as a sign of something like surrender and watches her open her jeans and lift her knees in turns to drag them off her legs. He lets himself drop onto his back then, knees bending up at her sides. For a moment, she looks down at him, his t-shirt wrinkled and riding up on his stomach, his face a little flushed, his jeans snug over his crotch. His thighs are tense when she touches them, pushing down until he takes the hint and lowers his knees, stretches out his legs.

She slides her fingers up his thighs until her thumbs are on his hipbones, and then she moves her hand over his fly, lower, pressing her palm down, cupping his cock through his jeans. She feels him out, stroking lightly, and his head tips back and a loud, sharp puff of breath escapes his throat.

Her eyes snap up. "We shouldn't be doing this," she blurts out, because it had to be said, it _had to_. He knows it and she knows it and maybe she should have said this earlier, before he got this hard, before her body became taut with anticipation, before she made the stupid mistake of letting herself want this.

The look on his face makes her bite her lip to suppress a weird, wrong content smile: his eyes go a little wide, a little glassy, his mouth open and serious, almost imperceptibly curling and relaxing around his breathing. She's still moving her hand against him, deliberately lazy, and the worry, the reluctance begins to ease off as the mood softens. She doesn't hate herself, doesn't hate the idea of _this_ enough to stop now.

He wets his lips when she drops her bra off her arms. There's still usually that absent instinct to hide, no matter how far any given time is from the first time she undressed in front of someone, but with Tyler it's just not there. Instead, she presses her hands low on his waist, that bare strip of skin, and says, "Get your shirt," and feels the muscles flex under her palms as he complies.

She leans forward, following the motion of his body as he lies back down, and catches the corner of his mouth when she tries to kiss him. He grabs the back of her head and angles their mouths better, and she rests some of her weight on the heels of her hands, some on Tyler's chest, gasping at the contact, the soft rub against her nipples as she moves against him. There's not an inch between them when he cups her breasts.

She pulls back to give him room and ends up flattening her hands to the floor around his shoulders. She props herself up on her toes, stretching her body over his until her chest is level with his mouth, covering his face in shadows. He doesn't need an invitation and doesn't bother asking for one before swirling his tongue over one of her nipples and catching the other one between his fingers. She arches into it, only realizing she's openly moaning after a while, after both her nipples are wet with saliva and his hands are on her ass. She moves to kneel with Tyler's legs between hers as a preemptive measure—apparently she doesn't hate him enough to accidentally nail him in the stomach with a knee right now—and brushes the crotch of his jeans as she settles down, the fabric rough through her panties.

It's not grinding down, exactly, but, okay, she grinds down a little, taking advantage of the space between them to watch his face, the way his mouth is all red and slick and his lids look heavy and he bites his upper lip hard, like that helps him not rub up against her, like she'd even care if he did that.

"You don't have to hold back," she says, a whisper through her teeth because it seems like the wrong thing to say properly out loud, too comfortable, too familiar.

"I kinda do," he says, smiling almost forcibly, and oh. Oh, boy.

Fine, screw this, she can't take any more of this. She sits back on her heels and goes for the waistband of his jeans, following it with her thumbs until they meet at the button. She's pulling down the zipper when she realizes she threw her bag on the floor earlier, near the couch, and she tries to disentangle herself, fumbling for her bag while still kneeling over him, fumbling for a condom in it until she realizes she can't get—she can't—

She—she can't. It's a sobering thought. She doesn't need a condom. She's never going to need one again. She could use one, but there isn't actually much of a point. Easier clean-up, maybe. Not that she's ever, like, had—given herself—a chance to compare. Caroline may be kind of easy, but she's not _dumb_.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Caroline laughs, a strangled sound that cuts through the silence, loud and surprising. "Nothing," she says, smiling because it's all she can do. There's no point in drawing anything but amusement out of it. Being sad won't change anything. So she grabs a foil packet from the depths of her handbag anyway, lets herself smile around the words as she repeats, "Nothing's wrong," and yanks Tyler's jeans down to his knees without thinking. It's a little weird to look down and be able to see him like this, the hard outline of his cock through his boxers, a little wet spot already forming on the fabric.

She licks her lips unconsciously, not in an anticipatory way, just because they go a little bit dry at the realization of how close she is to having sex with Tyler right now, and he groans her name, voice gruff and raspy.

"Tyler," she says, mocking, and smirks a little at him, eyes flickering back and forth between his face and his hips as she peels his underwear off, slow and maybe, partly, a little teasing. Maybe. The truth is she really loves this part, loves that little anticipatory feeling she gets when she's about to see this much of someone for the first time. She's seen Tyler naked before, but that was so the wrong context, and she's never seen him hard, and maybe this is not how she thought her evening would turn out, but she's physically incapable of pretending she doesn't want to see, pretending she's not slick and ready or that her thighs aren't twitching or that she's itching to be touched.

His underwear's around his knees when she decides she's not going to bother past that. She sets her fists on the floor and drags her knees a little higher up his body, lowering her hips enough to brush his cock, to rub herself a little along it.

It's not the most comfortable position, and her knuckles complain pretty soon.

She splays her hands against the floor and realizes just how much less comfortable this must be for him, so she says, "You're gonna bruise."

"I'm not gonna bruise," he says, eyes sharp, and yeah, okay, maybe he won't. He'll heal too fast to bruise. That's not the point.

"Doesn't it hur—"

"I don't _care_ ," he grits out, and suddenly things feel serious again; suddenly he has fingers on her hips and his other hand is holding his cock against her, driving himself in.

She's just fine with him doing this, so she lets him take charge for right now, jaw going a little loose as he fills her up. She moves her hands to his chest, levering herself up on his sides as she shifts to a sitting position. He lets go of himself to hold her hips, urging her down on him, and she starts moving before he does, clenching her muscles around him, getting things going.

Only a few seconds go by before she starts feeling a different kind of void inside her, and when she straightens up and throws her head back it turns to a strange dizziness, surreal, dreamlike, her vision blurring as her ears begin to pick up on his pulse. She forces her eyes wider open, looks down at him.

"I'm hungry," she says, because she can, because he knows already, because acknowledging it sometimes makes it better, easier to push through.

"Does this make it worse or better?" Tyler says, his grip tightening on her hips as he pushes into her, slow and deep.

She presses her tongue to the edges of her upper teeth, feels her chest rise, the long tension between her shoulderblades. "Both," she grits out, a hiss. She sets her hands on Tyler's chest, leaning on him, and her thighs stiffen as she rolls her shoulders back, trying to ease off some of the restlessness there. "It's a distraction," she attempts to explain, searching for something to focus on with her eyes.

She settles on looking down, at her fingers, her nails dragging down his chest, the pad of her thumb pulling his nipple against the knuckle of her forefinger, pinching, making him suck in a breath. He moves a hand to her elbow but just keeps it there, a loose clasp.

"But it's—it makes me, it makes the lack of energy—the lack of energy more noticeable. Like, like there's some kind of vortex inside me sucking it all—" She rolls her hips down against his, letting them rock on their own once she's regained something of a rhythm, and Tyler's fingers curl so tight around her elbow she can feel her own pulse under his thumb. She really, definitely does not mean to whimper, or gasp, or the weird thing in between that makes it out of her throat, but she can't hold it in. She remembers what she was saying then, softly finishing, "Sucking it all in."

As if on cue, something in her chest contracts. Her jaw falls and her lids close, just for a second before she forces her eyes open again.

"Tyler," she says, and presses her mouth closed so firmly it spreads a dull line of pain across her jaw.

He looks at her for a long time, his lips open just enough that she can see his teeth dragging together. She's noticed he does that when he's trying to think. It rides the line between ridiculous and endearing. Then, he throws his head back, careful enough to barely make a sound, eyes on the ceiling. His neck stretches into the angle and Caroline absentmindedly runs her fingers along the muscles there, almost missing it when he says, "You could feed—" Her eyes snap to her mouth, his tongue sliding out over his bottom lip before he adds, "You could drink from me."

"No I couldn't," she says instantly, taking her hands back until they're splayed over the bottom of his stomach. She drops her head forward and her hair falls over her cheek, drawing a long shadow over her wrists. She bends her pinky and grazes Tyler's hipbone with the nail.

"Yes," he says, words lined up with a disbelieving throaty laugh she feels under her hand, on his stomach before she faces him again, "you could."

"You're not," she begins, stretching her back and running her fingers through her hair, "you can't—you don't know it's not harmful."

"Yeah, I do," Tyler says earnestly. "It's not. When Mason was with Katherine—"

"You didn't even know about it, so don't tell me you have inside scoop on their relationship."

"She fed on him." He pauses suddenly when Caroline drops her hand and lets her fingers open around the base of his cock before dragging them up and pressing them to herself, rocking against them. She fails to hold back a smug smile. A million years later, he picks up with, "She fed on him, Jules said—"

"You trust Jules all you want, I'm not going to gamble with my life," Caroline says easily, and that's that. She's not discussing this. And she's definitely not discussing it while she's fucking Tyler on the floor of Jules's apartment. Jules, who kidnapped her and had her tortured.

"Fine," says Tyler, and then his hands are climbing up her arms and he's pulling her down by the neck, fingers tangling in her hair as his neck strains so he can kiss her.

This is not how Caroline was expecting this to go. She thought she'd show up and talk to him and maybe—she doesn't know, remember why he's not a lost cause and mean it when she tried to convince him to come back to Mystic Falls and leave Jules behind. There was nothing in her plans that involved Tyler squeezing her breast and pretty much _playing_ with his fingers on her nipple, or him working a hand between them, batting hers off, and pushing a finger in alongside his cock. Seriously not in her plans. At all.

His thumb swipes over her clit, absent, almost like he's testing her, testing what that will do, how much she needs that. She feels her back arch into him, strain into both of his hands at once, and her throat produces an elongated sound, half moan and half scream, that feels like it's been pulled forcibly out of her.

When he says, "Caroline," it's almost like it's been shocked out of him. He pulls his fingers back, and she makes a whining noise through her nose; this time, her name falls from his mouth like a gasp, his lip pulled down by his nail as he brings his wet fingers to his mouth, and then he's licking the finger he just had inside her and _closing his eyes_ and Caroline feels her orgasm coming an instant before it hits her. She rides it out with her mouth on his neck, slowing down some, trying to stay alert, trying not to bite even though he's arching into her like he wants her to, and keeps going.

She keeps going past a certain numbness into a stable, steady kind of arousal, which is pleasant, but not exactly what she wants. "Come on," she says, and she meets Tyler's eyes then, watches him lick his lips and bites at his tongue lightly, just once before sliding hers against it and rocking her hips harder. His hands fly to her breasts again, touching and touching without much of a sense of purpose. She retaliates by deliberately tightening around him until he's coming warm and deep inside her and she's beginning to hope for another orgasm, however it's brought about. She coaxes as much out of his body as she can before his head drops back with a soft, dry smack against the floor and his breathing turns slower, deep inhales that make his shoulders shake a little.

She rests his head on his chest for a moment, not looking for cuddling as much as looking to calm down, to stop thinking about how ready she is for more, and then she scrambles off him as well as she can, hitting her shin against the hardwood in the process. She sits down anyway, drawing her legs together.

"This is so uncomfortable," she grumbles, "not to mention unhygienic," and makes an effort to kneel up, at least. She's not sure she wants to stand right now. The hunger's faded just enough to be manageable, but it's more than that. She tries to fix her hair a little before it occurs to her that there's a perfectly—ass-ugly but probably more comfortable than the floor couch standing right beside her.

She's holding onto the back of the couch, using it to pull herself up to her feet, when she hears him laugh behind her. She glances back at him; he's almost smiling, covering the upper half of his face with one hand. He rubs his eyes as she stands, and a little groan makes it out of his mouth as he props himself up on one elbow and looks at her. Well, at her. He spares a glance to her face, and then his eyes seem to fixate on a less appropriate place. Caroline presses her lips together, waiting for—she doesn't even know what she's waiting for. Nothing in particular.

What actually happens is Tyler gets on his knees and drags himself towards her. He grabs her thighs at first, and then his hands move downwards and push her knees apart. He nuzzles at the hollow of her hipbone for a moment, his breath hot on her belly, and sits back on his heels.

"What are you—" She cuts herself off before Tyler growls out, "Please shut up," and she's too shocked to keep talking out of spite. He doesn't sound authoritative at all—his voice is raspy, thin, and there's a hint of desperation there that makes her worry at the same time her hips shift towards him. He sounds like he needs this more than she does, and that's—that's not something she's ready to whine about just now.

She grips the couch tighter as his palms cup the inside of her thighs, and accidentally lets out a whimper when he licks at her, a long strip from her entrance to her clit. Now that her legs are spread a little wider, now that she's relaxing, she realizes there's come dribbling out of her, over his hands on her thighs, trickling into his open mouth, and he's nudging his tongue in and sucking it all out.

It's—it's okay, it's fine; in seconds flat she goes back from calm to more than ready, and the laps of his tongue, the pressure of it inside her and outside, licking her clean, send shivers through her, make her feel almost needy. She whines, deep and high-pitched, and he makes this rumbling noise deep in his throat as he hooks one of her legs around his side, under his arm, fingertips digging into the sides of her knee, and splays his other hand over her stomach, low enough for his thumb to reach her clit.

"Tyler," she gasps out, "Tyler," and stalls when he slows down, when he pays attention. She meant to ask for something, but right now she doesn't know if she wants more or less pressure; she's sensitive from earlier, but she needs more, needs more than before, needs him to be a little rougher all at once. "I don't," she begins. He stills, sneaking a last lick at her and a _kiss_ before pulling back just enough to look up at her.

His face is a mess—there's come on his chin, and his nose is gleaming with her, and his lips are dark and swollen and hanging open, waiting. She has to close her eyes not to come at the sight.

"Stay there," she says, and he does. "Open—open your mouth." She looks down again, and shifts her hips until the flat of his tongue presses right where she needs it.

She rocks against it until she gets used to the friction, gets used enough to want more.

She says, "You can move now," and it's like the worlds starts roaring again. He grabs the back of her thighs, her ass, his fingers rough and possessive, and buries his face between her legs. He's not even using his fingers and it feels like he's _everywhere_ , lapping up every last trace of need, every last trace of _almost there_. Coming is natural after that, the pressure building in her stomach, her thighs, even her feet until it's too much to take, until all she can do is gasp cut-off curses and try to keep standing.

He's still on his knees when she looks at him, and she can't hold back a laugh. He offers this smile she recognizes, that smile he puts on when he's not sure if he's maybe being laughed at, looking down and probably pulling up his underwear and then his jeans just for something to do instead of wait to find out why she's laughing, and she laughs a little more, just because right now, just for this moment, it feels like she can.

"Come here," she says, holding out her hand, which he bypasses in favor of kissing slowly up her stomach, sneaking a last taste of her nipples before he stands to his full height. He's about to kiss her when she breaks into laughter again.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," she says, covering her mouth. "I just—I should get dressed." She doesn't move, though, and neither does he. "I can't really skip school two days in a row."

"Tomorrow's Saturday," Tyler points out, eyebrows slightly raised.

"Right," she says, "right, you're still living with—Jules." She laughs again. "I'm sorry! I don't know what the right way to act is when this happens." She steps around him and retrieves her jeans from the floor, pulling them on quickly, hoping having at least that will help her think more clearly.

"I don't think she's coming around until next week," he says, shrugging. "You could stay. I mean, if you want. You don't have to drive all the way back tonight if you don't want to."

It's probably a bad idea. It's probably all a bad idea—driving back right now, leaving like this, staying here, staying anywhere else in town. They'd both probably benefit from talking about what she came here to talk about in the morning, or just any time at all that isn't right after sex. She doesn't have the energy to argue with him right now.

She shakes her head. "I guess," she says, and hooks her bra on.

"Are you planning on going hunting? Because I guess I could—"

"You couldn't anything," she says. "Besides, I kind of—packed up dinner." At his raised eyebrow, she adds, "I'm not into starving, okay?" and picks her bag up from the floor, slinging the strap over her shoulder before she's even put on a shirt. Belatedly, she thinks better of it and goes to sit down on the couch, dropping the bag beside her.

"So you're staying," he says, head tilted, asking for confirmation.

"Are you coming back to Mystic Falls?" she says, and he shakes her head, looks at her a little like she's crazy. "Well, then, I kind of came here to talk some sense into you about that. So I guess I can't leave yet."


End file.
